


What Haunts Us

by inabsurd



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Angry Stan Pines, Blood and Gore, Eventual Mystery Trio, Gen, Memory Loss, Mystery, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Possession, Relationship Issues, tread carefully: i did not edit as thoroughly as i should have
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:47:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26483659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inabsurd/pseuds/inabsurd
Summary: Stan Pines dies at the ripe old age of twenty-seven in some no-where back-alley, just like he always knew he would. The downside, besides all the obvious stuff? His killer thinks he's his brother.
Relationships: Fiddleford H. McGucket & Ford Pines, Fiddleford H. McGucket & Stan Pines, Ford Pines & Stan Pines
Comments: 53
Kudos: 153





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this was Supposed to be a one-shot but then this fic [glares at google doc] decided it wanted to be bigger which was fine until I was finally finishing it today and then BOOM more. goddamn. plot. so now this is my first multi-chap...hurray 🎉
> 
> not sure what the update schedule is gonna look like for this but if it helps at all, I have the first 12.5k of this thing written out and (if it finally decides to start listening to me) it'll be over somewhere between 15k-17k
> 
> one more warning,, there may be some style inconsistencies between the first 4ish chapters and the rest of the fic because I was really trying for that free indirect discourse when I first started but then as the fic grew longer I had to pull back on the reigns a bit. I tried to catch as much of it as I could but I'm bound to have missed stuff so if you find excessive contractions or slang outside of dialogue tags and it feels clunky go ahead and point them out because some of them are allowed and some aren't 😅

Stan Pines dies at the ripe old age of twenty-seven in some no-where back-alley, just like he always knew he would.

Well, okay, not exactly the way he knew he would. He’d thought he’d be killed by Rico, truth be told. The asshat’s been sending his goons after Stan for months now so he figured that they’d be the ones to finally off him. Nope, they hadn’t even gotten close. The United States is a big place and, well, yeah, Stan’s running out of places to hide, running out of states he can travel through safely, but still. It’s a big place, and Stan has the advantage of having been in the country way before Rico caught wind he was out of Columbia.

That’s not the point though because this isn’t Rico. It’s not anyone Stan recognizes actually; just some crazy man with a gun who thinks he's his brother.

And that's the worst part of it all really because Stan was always supposed to die a violent and messy death, but Ford? Sure, his brother's off his rocker right now, but that's no reason to  _ kill the guy _ . This man, though, beanpole thin and dishevelled, doesn't seem to get that. He's shaking and stuttering, a crazed look in his eyes that could give Ford a run for his money.

"'m sorry, Stanford," he's saying, tears in his eyes like he's already pulled the trigger, "B-but ya jus' won't  _ listen! _ "

Stan raises his hands in surrender, "I'm not Ford,” It’s something he’s had to say all his life, but generally when there’s a gun pointed at his face, confessing to his identity is the last thing he wants to admit to.

Beanpole doesn't listen, though, just twitches violently enough that Stan thinks he's going to die right then right there. "Yer not!" the man agrees, nodding violently, "Yer that monster's tool! Ah have to stop 'im, Ford, ya understand that, right?"

"Woah, woah, wait, stop who?"

" _ THE BEAST _ !" the man full-body shudders, tears running rivers down his cheeks, "He's messin' with yer mind. Takin' bits o' it. Ah know what that's like. Ah was gonna do it to ya too."

Stan's been on the streets long enough to have seen a whole lotta bad, and this, well, it just about takes the cake. Whatever cocktail of drugs this guy is on, Stan wants nothing to do with it.

"Look, buddy, you gotta calm down-"

The man shakes his head frantically, "No, no, no. Can't. Gotta do it, gotta kill ya. Ah was gonna just erase your memory b-but ya said,'' he raises the little handgun higher, trembling hands easing to a still, "Ya said ya'd rather be dead than missin' bits. Bill's takin' bits now anyway and this'll stop 'im fer good."

Stan's blood runs cold, "W-wai-!"

Something solid and burning slams into his skull.

Then there's nothing.

* * *

Nothing sure doesn't last for very long. It's dark for what feels like a fraction of a second, and then he's up and seeing and wondering  _ why _ he's up and seeing in the first place.

"Nightmare," he mutters, choking laughter escaping him in violent puffs, "Just a nightmare."

He sits up, taking in the gloomy back alley, barely brightening up in the early morning sun, only to freeze half a second later because this is the alley from his dream. His hands fly to his forehead, clamping down between his eyes where he should have a bullet hole.

Where he  _ does  _ have a bullet hole.

He prods at the raised skin, at the sticky blood that's trickled down the side of his face and into his eye.

"Holy shit, I was shot?"

It wouldn't be the first time, but, Christ, how in the hell did he survive a bullet to the brain? The wound is deep, it has to be because no way he could be shot in the forehead at that short a range and have it not blow out the back end of his head unless he's really as thick-skulled as they say he is.

He brings a trembling hand around, poking gently at the back of his head for exit wounds.

His hair, normally matted and greasy from sweat and not showering, is tangled and sticky with blood. His skull isn't its normal shape; it's cracked and...oh, fuck, it's missing  _ chunks.  _ Bone and brain blown out the back of his head in one grand, gorey finale

He was shot in the head. He was shot right  _ through  _ the head. How did he survive?

Stan doesn't have much medical knowhow outside of how to freehand a pretty decent stitch, but he's pretty sure you can't stitch  _ bone _ . He's also pretty sure you're not supposed to get up and move around or whatnot with head injuries, but those rules were made by people who have support and backup. Regular rules don't apply on the street and Stan can't let himself bleed on some filthy ground any more than he already has, so he gets up.

And then everything clicks into place.

Underneath him is  _ him. _ Gore is smeared all over the alleyway and that...that came from him-!

Stan dry heaves, missing the feeling of his usually empty stomach as he just convulses in midair over his corpse.

"I'm dead," he whispers, hearing the words but not really believing them.

He  _ died _ and now he’s, what, a ghost? God, the supernatural shit was always Ford’s thing, not Stan’s.

The half-delirious thought brings with it some real concerns.

_ Oh, shit, Ford.  _ His brother’s going to have to identify his body, isn’t he? He doesn’t know; Stan never payed much attention to the  _ after  _ bit and it’s not like there’s a handbook or something for this. He doubts that the library has a copy of  _ So, You Died on the Streets  _ that they’d be willing to lend out to a ghost without a library card anyway.

And speaking of books, he still has Ford’s.

Fuck. His brother contacts him for the first time in ten years and Stan  _ dies _ ? Ford said take his book to the ends of the earth but he couldn’t even manage out of town. Ford’s going to show up to identify his body and find that book still in his damn pocket and finally realize that Stan really is a stupid, good-for-nothing grifter who never did anyone any good right through to the end. That he’s never done anything but drag Ford down.

Stan gags out of habit more than anything as panic engulfs him, choking him out like smoke.

_ Well, I did do one thing for him,  _ Stan thinks as  tears blood smears his vision,  _ Died for him. Accidently saved his life. _

His back goes ramrod straight, bobbing in place at the sudden movement, “Someone wants Ford  _ dead _ .”

The only reason his brother is alive enough to continue on his crazy paranoia mission is because Stan walked out of that house and happened to bump into his brother’s would-be-murderer. Which means Ford’s safe only until he comes out and confirms that the corpse in the alley isn’t him.

Then beanpole would be back, and Ford doesn’t have another sibling that could take the fall for him. Shermie could try, but no way even the wackjob with the gun would mistake her for Ford.

Ford’s going to die and Stan will still be dead and-

And-

“Oh, no,” Stan’s fists clench at his sides, “No one messes with my brother except me. Not even when I’m  _ dead.” _

He has to warn Ford.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot believe the attention this got after only a chapter I'm still floored over it all. Thanks to everyone for the interest, the comments especially got to me <3333 I hope you all continue to enjoy!

It takes Stan a while to get used to floating instead of walking, but he still manages even though he’s not the brainiac of the family. He figures the hovering thing has less to do with physically moving and it’s more a matter of willing it to happen. Weird, but Stan can appreciate that it’s less work on his part. Once he gets that down, he’s flying back towards Ford’s place at speeds he would only ever manage to hit in the Stanley-Mobile.

Passing through the wood walls of Ford’s nerd house is...uncomfortable. Like travelling through jello or something. Once Stan talks to Ford, he’s getting his twin to leave doors open for him everywhere.

...Ford will let him stay, right? Stan really has nowhere else to go and Ford would probably love a real ghost to study, right?

Stan shakes his head, “One step at a time. Gotta save Ford’s life first.”

It’s not hard to find Ford, he’s still in that basement where Stan left him. He’s staring at his machine, a blank look in his eyes like he’s not really sure what he’s doing anymore.

“Ford!” Stan’s in front of his brother in an instant. Ford doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, just continues staring past Stan, past his machine, not really looking at anything at all. Stan waves his hand in front of Ford’s face, and, when he gets no response, tries to grab the man by his thin shoulders.

Stan doesn’t even have the words to describe how gross passing through human flesh is but it shakes his entire...not body? Ghost body? He shakes; it’s a nasty feeling.

“Right, right. Ghost,” Stan runs a hand through his hair…A ‘hand’ through his ‘hair’ maybe?

“ _ Ugh _ , Ford, you gotta stop ignoring me ‘cause you bein’ the biggest nerd ever would come in super handy right now.”

His twin doesn’t respond. Stan wishes he could feel pissed at being ignored by Ford  _ again _ but that’s hard to focus on when he can feel the ice freezing inside him. _ What now what now how do I-  _ echoes endlessly in his mind.

“How am I supposed to protect you if you don’t even know I’m here?”

His brother doesn’t answer. Stan has to actively push away the thought that he might not ever answer.

* * *

Stan sticks close to Ford. He has to, really, because no one else is going to do it and until he can warn him that there’s a nutjob after him, Stan can’t risk leaving his brother alone. He may not be able to communicate but,  _ damnit _ , he’ll be even more useless if he’s  _ not even here _ .

Not that just watching his brother makes him feel useful at all. Ford doesn’t take care of himself at all and Stan can’t even nag at the guy when he goes too long between meals or sleep or bathing. Ford has this big, secure house with twelve locks in the middle of the woods and yet he acts like Stan does when he knows the debt collectors are coming.

Actually--and Stan hates to admit it--Ford’s acting even  _ worse _ than that because he doesn’t act like someone’s coming for him, he acts like someone’s already  _ there.  _ Like he’s cornered and now all he can do is wait for the trigger to be pulled.

Stan’s been watching, trying to piece together the clues but so far it's been a no go. All he really knows is that it has something to do with that big whatsit in the basement and that his brother seems to be terrified of sleeping.

That’s something Stan can relate to--he’s had his fair share of nightmares--but,  _ yeesh,  _ Ford takes it to a whole new level. He’s constantly moving, constantly sipping from the various half-filled coffee mugs around his lab, and he scribbles on loose paper whenever he happens to find one. Stan’s heard the muttering that accompanies these moments and it’s as freaky as it is insane. 

He has no idea what’s happening to his twin and every day that passes just makes the panic and regret creep higher. How hadn’t he seen this when he first saw Ford? Why didn’t he stick around to find out  _ why _ his brother needed him to take that book? What it had to do with that machine?

It’s two whole days before Ford finally passes out, fear clear in his eyes even as they slip shut.

Ford manages to get one good snore in before his eyes are wide open again, a manic grin pulling tight across his teeth. “FINALLY,” he stumbles to his feet, body swaying under its weight like he’s never used his own legs before.

Stan feels disappointment crawl through him at Ford’s sudden regain of consciousness but, more than that, he feels...scared. Something feels very,  _ very _ wrong but he can’t quite pin what it is until Ford’s eyes lock directly onto his.

“You’re quite the voyeur, ain'tcha?” he asks, a shit-eating grin twisting his face in a way Stan’s never seen on his brother before. And if that wasn’t unnerving enough, that manic grin is framed by slitted, yellow eyes.  _ Glowing,  _ slitted, yellow eyes.

He gapes, “Y-you can see me?” slipping past his mouth without permission.  _ Oh, Christ, this is so messed up.  _ He swallows, trying to grasp for anything inside him that isn’t laced with fear. “Could you see me this whole time, you bastard?”

“Well, of course  _ I  _ could. Fordsy, here,” he thumbs his own chest, ” _ Eh _ , not so much.”

Stan blinks, “What?”

“Wow, slow on the uptake, huh?” Ford waltzes around him, doing weird half-stumbles-half-skips that look almost like a dance as he circles Stan, “Name’s Bill,” he finally says. He sticks his hand--Ford’s hand?--out for a handshake that Stan reaches for instinctively. He sinks right through, groaning in frustration that’s drowned out by Ford’s laughter.

Except, this sounds...vindictive. Mocking. Ford’s never laughed like that, he’s only ever been laughed  _ at  _ like that.

“No wonder they call you the dumb twin,” his brother--Bill, apparently, but why does that name sound familiar?--says in between breathless peels of laughter.

Yeah, no way this is Ford. His brother can be a real jerk but he’s an  _ unintentional  _ jerk and that’s a big difference from what he sees now.

“Are you the thing that’s got Ford so freaked out?” he asks. He can tell by the sudden blank look on his face that he wasn’t expecting that. The sheer wrongness of whatever is happening doesn’t lessen, but Stan feels less paralyzed by it now that he’s caught this thing off guard.

That crazed smile reappears, slow, like a creeping infection, “I may know a thing or two about it. What’s it worth to ya?”

Oh. Stan knows what this is, knows this guy’s type. He’d recognize that suggestive tone, that threat and offer wrapped up in a pretty package coated in cyanide anywhere. He’s the same type as Stan; a no-good liar trying to come out on top through whatever means necessary.

“That depends on whatcha want,” Stan answers. In the con world, these phrases function more as a greeting than anything else; a way of letting the other know that you’re aware you’re playing, and not looking to get played.

He tries to ignore the internal panic of  _ Ford, what the  _ hell  _ did you get wrapped up in.  _

Sure, his brother was acting crazy when Stan showed up, but  _ Christ _ , this goes deeper than just some paranoia. Stan doesn’t know what Bill  _ is _ \--an alternate personality? That’s a thing that can happen, he saw it when he was chucked in the looney bin a few years back--but he sure as shit doesn’t trust anything about this.

“Oh, a challenge,” Bill gloats, baring Stanford’s teeth, “Your brother was so  _ easy _ , it’ll be nice to actually exert myself.”

That’s bait, Stan  _ knows  _ it’s bait, but the best kind is the stuff that makes you wanna bite even when you know there’s a hook concealed underneath it.

He bites, “What’d you need from Ford?”

Bill raises his brother’s hands out wide, “A willing puppet,” he says and his grin is absolutely  _ feral _ .

Stan twitches, “I take it that’s not goin’ so well for you?”

“And what makes you say that?”

He can’t help it, Stan grins, “You wouldn’t’ve revealed yourself to me if you didn’t hafta,” he points out. He feels pretty smug.

Bill shrugs, playing off the truth Stan knows he’s dug up, “I’ve worked with worse.”

“So what do you need me for?” because Stan  _ knows  _ he needs something. Men, or rather,  _ things  _ like Bill always need something from lowlife grunts like him.

“Oh, not much,” Bill brings up Ford’s fingers like he’s examining a manicure, “Just a small favour, nothin’ too hard.”

“And lemme guess, you’ll only leave my brother alone if I do this for you?”

“BINGO!”

Stan winces,  _ Does he have an off button? _

“So what’s the favour?”

Bill goes eerily still, gaze fixed intently on Stan, “ _ I need that book back. _ ”

A shudder wracks Stan’s form, “The book? You mean Ford’s journal?”  _ The same book Ford  _ insisted  _ I take to the ends of the freakin’ earth? _

_ The same book he called me worthless over? _

Stan shakes his head. He’s been doing a really good job not thinking about that up until now.

“The one and only!” Bill’s shrill voice cuts through his thoughts like a knife in butter, and Stan can’t help but be grateful for a distraction so impossible to ignore. “Get that back from your decaying hands and I'll get outta your brother's mind. I won't need him anymore!"

Stan speaks crook; that’s code for  _ murder _ .

_ And speakin’ of… _

“And that guy with the gun?” he demands.

Bill blinks, “Glasses? What about him?”

Stan gapes, “He wants to kill Ford and  _ actually  _ killed me. You tryin’ to tell me you had nothin’ to do with that?”

Laughter wracks Ford’s body in convulsing shudders, “Aw, are you  _ scared?” _ he wiggles his eyebrows, “Don’t worry about him. As long as Sixer sticks around here, your killer won’t have a reason to become a repeat offender.”

Somehow, Stan doubts that. Actually, there isn’t a single thing about this situation that he doesn’t doubt, but dealing with Bill might be the only way to get answers. Sure, he’s a lying bastard, but even lies reveal truths.

Still, there is one major hole in this master plan that Bill’s overlooking, “And how exactly am I supposed to get this book?” he reaches an arm out and sticks it right through the wall despite his discomfort, “I can’t exactly grab it ‘n’ run.”

Bill looks positively delighted, “Ever heard of possession?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments and kudos are never not appreciated


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter 3 babey! this is more set up for the next chapter and some plot stuff further down the road but hopefully it doesn't disappoint 😅 I worry about the pacing of this chapter tbh and I tried to put more into it but since I wrote most of this with the intent of it being a one-shot this was the best place to break it up lol

Apparently there’s a reason passing through human bodies feels so gross to Stan; his spirit or whatever is used to being in a ‘flesh vessel’, as Bill put it, so when he passes through people, he tries to stick. He can’t possess just anyone, though, which is why he hasn’t gotten stuck inside of Ford yet. It has to be someone tied to his death, which leaves only one option for Stan.

His killer is named Fiddleford McGucket so it’s no wonder the guy went off the deep end. He lives in a small house in the residential part of town but, recently, he’s been spending all his time at the museum, or so Bill says.

Stan doesn’t trust Bill, not by a long shot, but he probably didn’t lie about things he needs to know to get Ford’s journal.  _ Probably _ . Stan decides to just go for it. He tries not to think too hard on what exactly is going on with Ford and his journal and why some alternate personality would need it. He just hopes that getting his brother’s book back will come with answers.

It’s late when McGucket leaves the museum, or, really, really early. He’s dressed up in this red robe with a little key-necklace dangling around his neck, and dutifully tucking a gun into the robes. He’s a level of crazy Stan wishes he’d never run into.

Stan’s not sure if it’s because he’s so completely nuts or if it’s because he’s the one who offed him in the first place, but when Stan appears in front of him, the guy can  _ see  _ him and he freaks right out. He trembles and whimpers and pulls out that gun from inside his robe, pointing it at...his own head?

“N-no. No, no, no _ nonononono _ . Yer  _ dead _ ,” he whispers between clenched teeth.

“I sure am,” Stan rushes at the guy, unwilling to let his only connection to the real world shoot himself and leave his body useless to them both.

Passing into McGucket is way worse than passing through Ford or walls. It feels...slimy. Sticky. He ends up in there backwards for a minute before he manages to twist around towards the eye sockets so he can see and feel properly.

“Wow, did bein’ alive always feel this bad or is it just a you thing?”

McGucket doesn’t answer. Stan’s not sure he can.

He lowers the gun from ~~his~~ McGucket's head, turning it over in ~~his~~ _McGucket's--damn_ , _this might take some gettin' used to--_ hands.

It's not the gun that killed Stan and he feels a shuddering sense of relief wash through him at that. Actually, looking at the thing, Stan's not sure if it’s a gun at all. It's shaped like one, sure, but guns don't have keypads and lightbulbs attached to them.

Stan laughs, "Gettin' all worked up over nothin',” he slips the thing back into McGucket’s  pocket, trying his hardest to push down the sudden nausea that the action fills him with.

_ Nausea...not a feelin’ I misses. _

He takes a step forward and stumbles almost immediately, not used to the length of McGucket's spindly legs. Or using legs in general, actually

_ This might take a while. _

The whole walking thing is slow going, but the nice thing about collecting goods off a corpse is you know the thing’s not going anywhere. This turns out to be especially useful when Stan realizes he has no clue where the bodies end up in this town.  _ Do towns this small even have morgues? _

They do, Stan discovers, but not until he’s wandered around in the dark for two hours. Turns out the ‘morgue’ is actually built off of some guy’s house just off the cemetery. It’s...efficient, if not creepy as hell.

From here on, this is familiar territory; Stan's broken into dozens of places over the last ten years and, yeah, maybe it almost always ends badly but that doesn't mean that he doesn’t know what he's doing. Usually, it just means his rotten luck has caught up to him.

He's hoping that this time will be better. Most of the time his issue is getting caught up with the wrong people and, well, Stan can't say that Bill doesn't fit that description to a T, but Bill still needs him and until he gets Ford's hands on that book, Bill can't hurt either of them. Unless he screws up this robbery himself, everything will be just fine.

The door is unlocked, which is lucky for Stan because McGucket doesn't have any lockpicks on him and, honestly, Stan's not sure he could actually pick a lock with these hands. Thank goodness for too-trusting-small-town-morticians.

The house is sparsely decorated, just a few family portraits on the walls and...toy leggo coffins on the ground. 

_ Now, that's gotta be the creepiest thing I've ever seen _ .

Stan steps over the toys gingerly, doing his best not to bang McGucket's gangly limbs on every surface in the house. It's a lot harder than it looks, actually. McGucket's body, on top of being just too long every which way, seems...erratic. Stan's not sure if that's a I've-never-possessed-a-body-before thing or a McGucket's-an-unstable-basket-case thing but either way, Stan seems physically incapable of keeping the thing still. McGucket's legs kick out without warning and Stan can't bring himself to stop wringing the man's bandaged fingers; he’s just lucky he hasn’t bumbled into anything loud yet.

The house is neatly sectioned off between home and morgue which is nice--nothing like Ford’s weird lab with a little bit of furniture in certain areas that his brother seems to have mistaken for extra shelving.

No, this house seems to be split almost half and half with a wall run through the middle of the place and guarded with a simple turn-lock, the kind with the big keyhole that only needs a butter knife jiggled in it for the thing to pop open. Stan burrows a knife from the kitchen and, after scratching up the brass lock a  _ lot _ with McGucket’s uncooperative fingers, he finally manages to get inside. It’s dark and bare, sort of sterile feeling. He supposes that’s a good thing--it’s a  _ morgue-- _ but damn if the empty space doesn’t give him the heebeegeebees.

The morgue itself seems to only consist of one room and combines body storage, prep, and filing all in one. There’s no body on the table, but Stan’s sure his must be in one of those big locker looking things.

Most of them are empty if the lack of labels on the sides are anything to go on so it’s easy to pick out the  _ John Doe  _ in messy scrawl. Huh. Yeah, he supposes he left all of his IDs in the Diablo.

_ Lucky for me. It’ll take longer for them to contact Ford which buys him some time.  _ Stan winces,  _ Or it will if whatever’s goin’ on with that Bill thing doesn’t make it  _ worse.

That’d be just his luck honestly.

He rolls out the rack, wincing at the high pitched squeak of the wheels. Shit, he hopes the mortician is an old man who takes his hearing aid out at night or something because that sound could wake the  _ dead _ .

There’s something really disconcerting about looking at your own corpse. Sure, he’d seen it earlier but it hadn’t really sunk in at the time. He was a little distracted by the ghost thing honestly. His corpse though, huh? It...sure is pale.

Stan stares at himself for way longer than he needs to considering there’s definitely no book hiding under that thin white sheet, but he finds it difficult to look away.

He finally does. He slides the rolling thing shut and rubs McGucket’s face with the guy’s hands, wincing at the headache that’s starting to set in. 

_ Damnit, where could that journal be. _

Stan glances around the room again, eyes locking on the desk in the corner. It’s the one messy thing in the space.

He wobbles over, sifting through papers and folders. There’s one that’s labelled  _ CLASSIFIED  _ in big red ink that catches his attention instantly.

“Don’t mind if I do,” he flips it open, gory photos of his crime scene spilling out onto the table. Stan does his best to ignore those and turns his attention to the hand-written notes that come with it.

There’s not much there, just observations on the position of the body, the bullet. These small-town cops really don’t know much, huh? There are no suspects, no leads, the only theory they have is written in big letters at the bottom of the page  _ SCIENCE GUY WHO LIVES OUT IN THE WOODS?  _ with a big curly arrow pointing to Stan’s corpse.

_ Yeesh, I figured Ford didn’t leave the house much but they don’t even know his name? How long has he  _ lived  _ here? _

Still, that’s not good. If they think that  _ he’s  _ Ford then they’re going to go knocking and once Ford, or Bill, or  _ whoever else  _ answers, McGucket’s going to catch onto his mistake. He  _ needs  _ to get that book. Bill, at least, Stan thinks he can handle so long as he keeps everyone else out of it. If McGucket catches on, though, or the cops go knocking, or, really, if anything else goes awry, Stan’s not sure he’ll be able to take control of the situation--with or without McGucket’s body as a vessel.

But the journal’s not on the desk either.  _ Fuck, do the cops have it?  _ Stan really doesn’t feel up to parading around town in the body of his killer.

He rereads the report, spotting a list of his possessions on the back side written on a little sticky note he’d missed the first time. Aside from his clothes, all that’s listed is  _ ligher, 82 cents, Gravity Falls postcard, car keys. _

But no book.

“Fuck.”

Stan’s not the big thinker of the family, but he’s seen and committed enough crime to get the gist of it; “McGucket has Ford’s journal.”

So Ford wasn’t just targeted because this guy’s off his rocker but because he wanted that book. “Is that why Ford wanted me to take it?” he wouldn’t have pegged McGucket as the ‘wrong hands’ Ford was so worried about, but, considering the kook killed him for it, Stan can’t think of a better candidate.

“Alright, to McGucket’s house.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks again for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> who let me write Fiddleford's accent like that? whoever you are, please revoke my rights it's so hard 😭😭
> 
> that aside, enjoy the longest chapter yet!

The house is Ford level messy when Stan gets there. He has half a mind to think the guy’s been robbed while he was off doing...whatever he does at the museum at no-one-should-be-awake-AM, but nothing seems to be missing and the mess from a speed search is usually more chaotic and less crazy.

And the eyes spray painted and then crossed off in red paint on every available surface definitely point to crazy.

Stan groans at the mess, “You couldn’t clean up before havin’ guests over?” he tried to laugh at his own joke but even to his own ears it just sounds flat and sad.

Right then.

As uncomfortable as raiding a morgue was, he’d really rather be back there with the dead bodies than in his killer’s home. The place is  _ creepy.  _ Filled with eyes and blueprints with loose wires stuffed every which way. Stan doesn’t want to risk turning the lights on and alerting the neighbours, but in the early morning gloom, it feels like the walls are pressing in around him.

He shudders and starts digging through the mess.

There’s half-built contraptions, pages filled with nothing but numbers, legal pads full of random notes, and tubes stashed in a corner with McGucket’s name on them and at least a dozen stickies above the pile that read  _ TAKE TO THE SOCIETY - DON’T FORGET _ .

Stan glances down at the robe he caught McGucket in, “Some kinda cult?”

Of course. Because Stan needs  _ more  _ crazy in this town. Alternate personalities and cults and creepy science gizmos in every house he’s been to-

_ Wait, creepy science gizmos? _

What are the odds of  _ two  _ mad scientists coming to the same backwater town? Stan grew up in a small community--bigger than this but still--and Ford was the only nerd who ever dragged in any real scientists with their fancy schools. Unless something real important was going on, Ford wouldn’t have come here and Stan’s willing to bet that McGucket wouldn’t have either.

It has to have something to do with Ford’s book and whatever that thing is in his basement that has him so scared, but where does McGucket come into it all?

He knew Ford, knew about the book, knew about some third party that was ‘taking bits’ whatever  _ that  _ means, knew enough to decide to kill his brother…

But  _ why?  _ How the hell does it all connect?

Stan groans, “Why the hell can’t Ford clean up his own messes? He’s the smart one.”

Stan’s never been one for mysteries or suspense, he’s more of a slash, hack, call her a day kind of guy. Ford would have loved this kind of thing when they were kids. He probably wouldn’t like it much now considering the whole being dead thing, but this is still more Ford’s thing than Stan’s. His brother could figure this out easy if the situations were reversed, but him? All he has are questions and his only way of getting answers is hidden somewhere with McGucket’s secrets.

There’s nothing more frustrating than being so close to the guys with the answers and not being able to talk to any of them. Ford can’t see him, Bill won’t talk without that book, MucGucket can see him but can’t talk to him-

-He could talk before Stan possessed him though.

Stan smacks McGucket’s forehead, “Hot Belgian waffles!”

He’s out of his killer’s body half a second later, wobbling around on thin air. Behind him, he hears McGucket clatter to the ground like a sack of bones, a surprised yelp leaving his throat. Stan twists around just in time to see McGucket turn tail,  _ try  _ to book it, and fly straight over his coffee table with his gangly legs.

Stan does his best not to bust out laughing but all he can manage is toning it down to snickers. “Where’s the book?”

McGucket actually whimpers _ ,  _ “Ah won’t give it to ya! Ah don’ care what deal ya made with that  _ thing _ , Ah won’ let ya have it!”

“I didn’t make any deals and I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about!” Stan shouts. If he still had lungs, they’d be workin’ overtime.

“Lies, lies,  _ lies, _ ” McGucket pulls himself up, crawling frantically away from Stan, “Ah can’t trust ya even  _ dead! _ ”

Not good. McGucket won’t talk to ‘Ford’, but Stan can’t let the guy find out he shot the wrong twin. Maybe he could…

“I’m trying to end all this!” his Ford impression is rusty, but Stan’s always been good at faking identities.

McGucket gapes, “Ya are, are ya?” he sounds suspicious, which is, yeah, fair enough.

“Yes,” Stan almost yells, only halfway feigning exasperation, “But I need my journal to do it. You know what’s at stake if we fail!” Or at least Stan hopes he does because he has no idea.

The man squints and, for just a second, Stan thinks he’s failed.

“What are ya gonna do with it?” he asks slowly. There’s something off about McGucket’s tone, something that doesn’t look quite right in his eyes as they peer at each other in the dark. Something far more sane than Stan’s killer has any right to be.

“Uh,”  _ Think, think, what does Ford even put in those things?  _ “The answers to our problems are in my research, I just need to find it. I’ve been having trouble remembering since,” he gestures to the hole in his forehead and McGucket winces with something like guilt passing over his face. 

Stan was hoping that drawing attention away from the book would help, but his killer just seems more wary, “And how do ya know  _ that _ ? Did Bill say somethin’?” McGucket says the name Bill with a sneer.

“Bill’s not involved anymore,” Stan tries. It’s clear that McGucket doesn’t like Ford’s alternate personality or whatever that thing is so maybe if he can just play into that…

“It's not involved ‘cause Ah _ made sure it wouldn’t be!”  _

Stan winces at the force of his shout.  _ Okay, bad move, very bad move. _

“There’s nothin’ left ta  _ fix _ , Stanford. Ah did it. Ya wouldn’t listen ta me so Ah took care of it an’ saved us all from yer stupidity!”

He gapes, he can’t help it.  _ Goddamn _ , if he could just listen-!

Stan snaps, “You didn’t save anyone you just _ killed me  _ and I have no clue what’s goin’ on and I  _ need  _ that book so just tell me what you did with it!”

McGucket blinks, stares, squints, “Y-yer not Stanford,” he finally spits out, voice flat in his shock. He squints at him harder, like he’s trying to remember something and is having a hard time with it, “Yer his twin, right? Stanley?”

And that is a shock because, truth be told, after him and Ford’s fight all those years ago, Stan just figured Ford wouldn’t talk about him. He was so eager to get rid of him that Stan’s not sure why he’d drag around even the memory of him if all he does is hold Ford back. It’s that thought more than anything else that has Stan asking, “He talked about me?”

He could kick himself for showing his hand later, right now the idea that his brother might have regretted it all is too tempting to ignore. 

McGucket nods, “Not much,” he admits, “Y’all had quite the fallin’ out.”

Stan winces, “How do you know Ford? Why-” he takes a deep breath, “Why’d you try and kill him?”

At that, McGucket goes sheet white, looking more like a ghost than Stan himself does, “Oh, God, Ah killed ya,” he whispers, eyes wide and body trembling violently, “Ah  _ killed  _ ya.”

That look on his face- 

“McGucket-” he tries.

“I killed an innocent man!” he screeches, hands tugging on his hair like he’s trying to pull it out and reach into his brain, “Ah never met ya before and Ah killed ya!”

“McGucket-!”

“A-Ah thought Ah did the right thin’. Thought Ah was savin’ us. Thought-”

“Savin’ us from  _ what _ ?” Stan shouts. He needs answers and he needs those answers  _ now _ , before McGucket does something stupid. Men dealing with guilt almost never do anything good with that feeling and, frankly, Stan can’t find it in himself to try and comfort his murderer.

McGucket’s eyes shrink down to pinpricks, any semblance of sanity he’d had swept away, “The beast! Stanford’s  _ muse _ .”

_ THE BEAST! He's messin' with yer mind. Takin' bits o' it. Ah know what that's like. Ah was gonna do it to ya too. _

_ Bill's takin' bits now anyway and this'll stop 'im fer good. _

_ Name’s Bill. _

_ Are you the thing that’s got Ford so freaked out? _

_ I may know a thing or two about it. _

_ What’d you need from Ford? _

_ A willing puppet. _

_ So what do you need me for? _

_ I need that book back. _

_ Take this book, get on a boat, and sail as far away as you can. To the edge of the earth! _

“You mean Bill?” he says it like it's a question but Stan already knows the answer. He should have known it a while ago.

McGucket shudders, “He’s a  _ monster _ . Stanley, Ah’m-” tears leak out the man’s eyes in sporadic drops, “Ah’m so sorry. Ah never meant ta kill ya b-but Ah had ta do  _ somethin’ _ . The whole world is in danger!”

Stan’s...never had someone apologize to him for doing him wrong but he can’t linger on that because ‘the whole world’ thing’s a bit more important. Obviously something bad is happening here, bad enough to drive his brother crazy and push McGucket to  _ murder _ , but the  _ whole world?  _ Really?

“Look, I’ve met Bill,” he ignores the way McGucket tries to fold in on himself at that name, “And I get it, he’s a sketchy guy, but Ford needs  _ help _ right now. There’s gotta be a...a doctor or somethin’ that knows ‘bout this sorta thing.”

“A doctor?” McGucket sputters, “What sorta doctor knows how ta exorcise a demon?”

Right, scratch that earlier thought; something bad enough happened here to drive  _ two  _ men crazy and then the second man to murder.

“My brother’s not a demon,” Stan’s pretty sure you can’t argue with crazy but damn if he’s not going to try.

McGucket stares for a long moment before his eyes finally clear up,“Bill’s a literal demon,” he says, like it should be obvious, “Ford summoned it while explorin’ the woods an’ it asked him to build the portal. He invited me down ta help with it.”

Wow. If Stan hadn’t understood anything before he’s not even sure what to call this feeling.

“By portal do you mean the trans-uni _ whatever  _ in the basement? The big triangle lookin’ machine?”

McGucket nods, “The portal’s gonna open into the demon’s world and let it inta ours,” at the blank look on Stan’s face, the man adds, “That’s bad.”

Stan smothers the urge to hit the guy, “Yeah, no, I get that but isn’t he already here?” Not that Stan believes a word of this, it’s just easier to get info from the crazy guy by playing along.

_ Right? _

“Not yet,” McGucket glances around at the walls like he’s afraid of being overheard or something. Actually, with the way he’s staring down the eyes all over his house, it’s more like he’s afraid of being watched. “It’s just in Ford’s mind because of their deal, but if it comes through the portal…” he shudders, “It’ll be the end of the world.”

Stan has to suppress a shudder even as he reminds himself that McGucket’s off his rocker and no way anything he’s saying is true.

_ Still,  _ a traitorous little thought makes itself heard,  _ If anyone was gonna get tangled up with an actual demon, it’d just have to be Ford to do it. _

“Why try and kill him, though?” Stan asks, and he has to consciously keep himself from losing it here, from yelling  _ Why me?  _ at the top of his lungs, “Why not just shut down the portal?” The answer comes to Stan the second after he asks the question, the memory of trying to burn that damn book and being tackled for it, “He wouldn’t let you.”

McGucket shakes his head, “Too proud. He wouldn’t listen when Ah told him what was gonna happen so Ah quit. Ah’ve seen too much bad workin’ with that man ta wanna help make anymore o’ it.”

Anger blooms again in Stan’s chest, “But tryin’ to kill him wasn’t bad enough for you?”

“It was either that or erase his memories an’ he told me himself he’d rather be dead than without his mind!”

“There are other ways! He’s tryin’ to fix it now on his own!”

“And if he fails?” McGucket’s voice ricochets in the tiny space, “Ya haven’t seen it, neither of ya have seen it.  _ Ya don’t know the chaos that thing will unleesh!” _

Stan glares, “I don’t need to because it’s not gonna happen! Now tell me what you did with that book!”

McGucket draws himself up, his full height almost intimidating if he weren’t rail-thin, “Ah don’t remember,” he says, sounding almost smug.

“You don’t-”

McGucket pulls the gun, the weird light-bulb thing, out from inside his robes, “This is a memory gun, a tool o’ my own invention. Ah can erase any memory Ah want with it an’ Ah made sure Ah’d never find that journal again.”

_ No _ . 

“McGucket, you gotta remember. That book’s the only thing Bill’s willin’ to gamble for!”

The man nods, “Then Ah did the right thing. He still needs it fer somethin’ and now he can never have it.”

“But Ford-”

“Was supposed ta be dead anyway!” McGucket points out. His voice is steady, a little passionate but lucid all the same _.  _ This isn’t the all encompassing fear of just a few minutes ago, this is a man who made a conscious decision and is sticking to it, “If Bill still needs that journal then I don’t need ta kill him.”

The fire, that anger that was warming his chest implodes,  _ “So I died for nothin’ then?”  _ he roars.

McGucket pales, “I-I’m sorry, Stanley. It wasn’t supposed ta be you. It was dark an’ I never thought you would be here-”

“So it’s okay if it’s an accident?” around them, papers begin to flutter, fly, caught in an out-of-nowhere wind, “You think that makes your screw-up  _ okay?  _ You  **murdered me!** ”

The floorboards screech in pain as they warp and shift in ways they were never meant to move. A window shatters.

“I’m  _ sorry _ !” McGucket yells again, terror clear in his eyes but that’s not enough, not good enough. Stan wasn’t supposed to be there, wasn’t supposed to be on the streets in the first place, his brother wasn’t supposed to be targeted,  _ they should never have been separated-! _

-Separated over an accident.

Stan deflates. The papers stop flapping around and the house silences its groans of protest. McGucket doesn’t stop cowering exactly, but it isn’t as bad; his eyes are still wide with fear when he looks at him, but at least he’s not shaking and crying anymore.

Stan sighs, feeling more exhausted than he has since dying in the first place, “Just...how can I find the journal?”

Slow, trembling fingers raise up towards the pile of tubes, “Th-the memory gun,” he stutters, not meeting Stan’s eyes at all anymore, “It makes c-copies when it’s used. Some o’ mine are in there an’ the rest will be a-at the hideout.”

“What hideout?”

McGucket flinches like he’s about to be hit, “The one under the museum!”

Well, he’s probably telling the truth about that; it matches with what Bill said at the very least.

“Then I guess we’re goin’ to the museum,” he mutters. The last thing Stan wants to do is chase his tail some more but what other choice does he have?

McGucket flinches, shudders, “No, no, no. Ah won’t be a part of this anymore, Ah won’t!” he raises that gun up once more, eyes wide in fear but hands unnervingly steady as he types something up into the keypad faster than Stan can follow from this angle.

“What are you doing?” fear claws at his throat.

A light flashes then, a sudden bright blue that Stan would normally have to squint to see properly. Must be a benefit of being dead because Stan gets to see the whole picture in all its disturbing glory as Fiddleford’s eyes go completely blank, relief evident in his slack-jawed expression, before dimming. Glazed eyes look right past Stan like he isn’t even there anymore.

“McGucket, hey?” Stan clears his throat to dispel the odd tremor to it. McGucket doesn’t respond. “McGucket?”

Still no response. If Stan had a stomach, he’s sure it’d be doing that ‘full of lead’ feeling that always comes with dread. He’s unsteady as he approaches, wobbling in the air like he’s suddenly weaker than he was; the ghost equivalent of starving and hungry, if he had to guess.

“What the hell?” he murmurs, slurs almost.

He gets his answer a moment later when he spots the bright green text of McGucket’s memory gun: STANLEY PINES.

Everything goes black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ngl I'm really proud of the formatting in this one. weird thing to be proud of, but I am
> 
> ANYWAY thanks for reading! same as always, comments and kudos give me life


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY HALLOWEEN!! as a treat, enjoy the longest chapter out of this 16k (and counting) thing

Things stay pretty black for a long while. There are moments where he’s more aware than others, moments when he sees McGucket wandering around his home in contrast to those moments where he just...doesn’t. Those moments, Stan realizes, are usually preceded by McGucket pointing that gun to his head again and mumbling to himself like a lunatic.

It’s one of those clearer moments that Stan finally realizes how  _ long  _ it’s been since everything happened.  _ Oh, Christ, is Ford okay? _

Stan doesn’t have much time, he never does. When he’s alert like this, it always ends when McGucket puts that gun to his head. “MCGUCKET!” around Stan, the lights on the cave walls flicker.

_ Wait a minute, cave walls?  _ the confusion overrides the anger just enough that the lights stop zinging in their sockets. In the silence, Stan can make out an all-too-familiar whimpering.

He doesn’t waste time. Stan finds McGucket like he's been hardwired to track the guydown. It’s a buzz that fills his entire being and has him flashing into existence before his killer without ever really moving to do so. 

McGucket has half a second to take in Stan’s ghostly form, half a second to open his mouth to scream, half a second for his fingers to twitch for the memory gun that’s been set on the desk beside him, and then Stan is possessing him once more. He hadn’t felt it the first time he’d done this since he’d been a little too preoccupied with how gross the sensation was, but now all he feels is the way McGucket’s consciousness struggles under the weight of Stan’s own before succumbing to the waves.

Stan grins, McGucket’s snaggletooth glinting in the dim cave light.

Once Stan reorientates himself in his vessel, he gets to work figuring out where he is. Last he remembers, he was in McGucket’s house. There’s been flashes of places here and there, nowhere that he can recall now, but McGucket was there every time. Must be some sort of connection, what with him being Stan’s killer and all.

He shrugs McGucket’s shoulders. It doesn’t really matter much, he supposes, and he’s never been much for figuring stuff like this out anyway. What really matters is finding out where he is and...he pauses.  _ What was I doin’ again? _

_ Right,  _ finding that book for Ford’s possibly a demon, possibly an alter-ego buddy.

How does he get wrapped up in this shit?

* * *

Figuring out where he is is easy. It only takes one look at the piles upon piles of memory tubes labelled with various people’s names on them for Stan to gather he’s...well, wherever McGucket does his weird cult shit. The museum, supposedly.

Digging through the tubes to find the information, though? That's another story.

None of the tubes are sorted and it takes Stan a good few hours of searching and watching McGucket’s memories before he finally gets the location on Ford’s journal. After that, it’s just a matter of finding his way out of the winding underground tunnels, breaking out of the museum in what is apparently the dead of night, and then going back to McGucket’s house and tearing out a specific section of wall where he’d bricked it in.

In short, Stan has had a terrible night and he knows it’s only leading up to a terrible day because he has to hear Bill’s grating voice before the sun even rises.

Ford’s still down in the basement when Stan arrives in McGucket’s body; Stan’s not sure if that means it actually  _ hasn’t  _ been that long or if Ford just doesn’t ever leave his lab but, knowing his brother, Stan’s betting on the second.

Ford snaps around the second the elevator doors open, eyes wild in the dim light, “Fiddleford?” he asks, mouth slack.

“Er, yes?” Bill must not be around right now because the surprise on his brother’s face is too genuine to belong to that slimeball. Still, Bill or no, Stan and Ford didn’t really part on good terms; being invited to your twin’s home and then immediately being told to go away doesn’t do much to clear the air. Between that and the science fair, the last person Stan wants to admit his true identity to is his brother.

Stan’s never seen his brother so completely speechless though.

“I thought you never wanted to see me again,” he finally says, sounding a little awed.

Stan shrugs, “Yeah, well, some things are more important than my comfort,” and isn’t that too close to home. Good thing Stan’s not actually Stan right now, not to Ford anyway. “Thought you could use some help.”

“Help?”

Stan rolls McGucket’s eyes, “Yeah, you’re in trouble, aren’t you? So what can I do?”

Ford snaps upright, “Right. The journals and second operation key have all been hidden. All that’s left is to begin deconstructing the portal--as safely as we can manage.”

“Just tell me what to do,” Stan nods. Since Bill’s not around and he can actually  _ talk  _ to Ford, maybe Stan can finally get some answers without having to possibly endanger his brother’s life by giving in to Bill’s demands.

McGucket knew about Bill; Stan can use that, “You’re...uh,  _ friend  _ won’t be joining us, will he?”

Ford catches his meaning immediately. Mark that one down for the history books. 

His voice is hard, almost vehement, “No,” he pauses and continues much softer the second go around, “So long as I don’t sleep, he won’t be able to interfere. Part of the reason I haven’t managed anything beyond powering it down is because I fear falling asleep while dealing with some delicate circuitry and leveling half of Gravity Falls for my efforts.”

Stan nods as if that’s in any way normal, “S’pose I’ll just have to keep you up then,” he can keep his brother awake no problem, but if this thing is really that dangerous, Stan in McGucket’s sporadic body really shouldn’t be allowed anywhere near it. “I’d feel a lot better if we could just get rid of Bill first, though.”

His brother huffs a laugh, “So would I but unless I can physically shield my mind, Bill will have access to my body from now until the end of time.”

Stan sucks in a breath, “Those weren’t the terms of the deal, right? Tell me you’re exaggerating.”

If Bill really  _ is  _ a demon--and Stan has to keep reminding himself that there’s no way he is--then Ford’s in it  _ deep _ .

Ford just smiles grimly. It’s the same look he always got on his face when they were kids and he had to admit to being attacked by Crampelter again.

Stan whistles, higher pitched in McGucket’s body than he’s prepared to hear, “Shit, Ford.”

His brother nods emphatically, only to pause mid-motion, eyes narrowing in suspicion, “Are you feeling alright, Fiddleford?”

Fuck, right, McGucket here talks like a wackjob and Stan’s never heard the guy swear.

“Uh, yup, right as rain!” he smiles wide.

One look at his brother's face and Stan knows he's not going to be able to keep this up. Ford's eyes are ripe with suspicion and mistrust; there's a look there, a sort of manic fear that is way too similar to McGucket's crazy eyes for Stan to be comfortable with. If he hadn't already known the two were involved in the same shit, the twin looks of terror are a dead give-away.

Ford's hand twitches for his pocket-- _ Shit, does Ford keep guns on him now too?-- _ and Stan knows the jig is up. He really doesn't want to get shot again and so he raises his hands up in surrender. "This is gonna sound crazy but from what I've seen, you've had your fair share of crazy recently."

His brother pauses, tense and confused.

"It's Stan, Ford. I'm in McGucket's body."

Ford's eyes flick from Stan to something in his periphery, his thinking face remains unchanged since they were teenagers. He's analyzing, working through a hundred possibilities in his mind trying to pin down the solution. "Did Fiddleford take the electron carpet when he left?"

Stan has no clue what an electron carpet is, but he's pretty sure it's off-base. "Uh, no?" he tries, "I'm, uh, just…not in my body right now." Ford's eyes widen in something close to terror and Stan waves his arms in his best attempt at placating, "I dunno how. It doesn't matter. I wanna help with Bill, okay?"

Whatever Ford had been about to say, he halts in his tracks, face tensing as a different train of thought gets his attention, "I already  _ brought you here to help with Bill _ ," he points out, anger and fear warring on his face, "Stanley, where's my journal?"

"I've still got it," Stan holds it up from where he's been clenching it uselessly at McGucket's side, "Didn't know what to do after I lost my body. Came back to you." And that's almost the truth, this version just omits murder and deals with demons and whatever the hell that cult was up to.

"You brought it  _ back? _ " Ford goes sheet white, "That was incredibly dangerous. How long have you been here? Stanley, I  _ told you _ I'm up against something beyond comprehension-"

"A demon, I know," Stan interrupts, a little scared and more than a little pissed at Ford's ability to be a prick even when Stan's  _ dead _ . He’s not smart but he's not so dense that he can't  _ figure shit out. _

Ford doesn't care about that though, just panics as the implications of exactly how much Stan has figured out falls into place. "How do you know Bill? Did he-" at this Ford blanche's, "Did he toss you and Fiddleford into the mindscape? Stanley,  _ did you make a deal?" _

“Um, not officially,” he answers honestly, so completely lost that he just tells the truth because, surely, whatever Stan has to say isn’t going to be nearly as crazy and the made-up words spilling from his brother’s mouth right now.

Stanford doesn't relax in the slightest, "Did you  _ shake his hand?"  _ the fear on his face is all-consuming.

"No. He asked for a favour, gave me the details, and then sent me on my way. I never touched-" Stan stumbles slightly as he resists the impulse to say  _ I never touched you,  _ "Him."

There's a long, long moment where Ford stares at him, assessing the truth to his statement. Then, he pulls his hand out of his pocket and steps forward in one swift motion. Stanley tries to pull back, to reach up and defend himself, but McGucket's body is all wrong and he ends up tripping backwards instead. He's caught only by his brother's grip on the collar of McGucket's robe, but any feelings of relief are immediately swept away by sheer confusion as Stanley is blinded with a flashlight for the second time by Ford in as many meetings.

"Why do you keep doing that?" he groans, scrubbing at his eyes as if he can physically wipe the sunspots away.

Ford doesn't answer him, just backs up looking equal parts relieved and perplexed, "It appears you're telling the truth," he finally decides, although the words come out sounding hesitant.

"No shit, Genius," Stan mutters a few choice words under his breath, "So what's this all about--and none of that 'you don't understand what's happening' bullshit you fed me last time," he adds sternly, "I've been trying to figure out this mess on my own for too long so just be straight with me for once."

Ford seems to consider this for a stupid amount of time considering he was the one to  _ drag Stan into it all, _ but eventually he concedes. He sighs, like actually talking to Stan is some great burden--and knowing Ford, that doesn’t sound like an off-base guess--before he begins: “I met Bill when I hit a block in my research. Legends proclaimed him to be a being with answers, and he is, but they also warned that summoning him brought grave danger. I ignored it, too confident in my abilities and too desperate to find the answers to Gravity Falls’ weirdness to resist. I was a fool, Stanley, and he took advantage. He presented himself to me as a muse and I helped him build this portal,” he gestures to the monstrosity behind him, “Which he promised would be the breakthrough I needed. It was a ruse; the portal’s true purpose is to bring Bill himself into our dimension so he can commence his global takeover. That journal contains part of the operation manual as well as the second activation key. The portal was built by Fiddleford and I, you see, and a two-person start-up mechanism was safer than the original drafted plans.”

That’s..that’s a  _ lot  _ to take in, so much so that Stan’s not really sure where to start. He ends up just blurting out the bit that sticks out most, “So Bill’s a  _ real demon?  _ That’s not an exaggeration?” he said it earlier, said he knew what Ford was up against but  _ Jesus. A demon.  _ A  _ real demon that wants to end the world.  _ Stan laughs weakly, “No wonder you told me to get as far away from you as possible.”

Ford nods, “Yes, but you and Fiddlford swapping bodies complicates things. We’ll need to switch you two back, and quickly, before Bill takes further advantage of this mishap.”

Stanley feels McGucket pale, the sudden chill on the unfamiliar face enough to clue him into his killer’s obvious lack of a poker face. It’s just as well, though, Stan’s not sure how to spin this story. There’s too many loose ends, too much science and voodoo magic involved for him to even try and bullshit his way out of this. “I’ll just borrow McGucket’s body. He seems the type to do whatever’s necessary to stop this,” the phantom burn of the bullet stings his head.

His brother scoffs, “You must not have met Fiddleford for very long. He ran as soon as it became too much for him.”

Stan chokes back laughter so bitter it scalds his tongue; if anyone doesn’t know McGucket, it’s Ford. Unfortunately for him, Stan’s gotten to know the man far more than he ever wanted to. Still, something of the action must show on his face because his brother scowls at him.

“Stanley, this is no laughing matter.”

And isn’t that just the icing on the cake. Ford summons a  _ literal demon _ , puts the entire goddamn planet in danger, and pisses off a supposedly very passive man so much that he commits  _ murder _ , and yet  _ he’s the screw-up. Still. _

The lights flicker around them.

“No, you’re right, Ford,” he spreads his arms wide, magmatically, and a wind picks up around them even this far below ground, “How  _ stupid of me.  _ So, McGucket wouldn’t try anything, huh?”

He’s in front of his brother in an instant, not quite remembering crossing the distance but he stands there trembling in rage. If he still had a body, his own body, he’d mirror Ford exactly, save for the difference in facial expression; where his glare feels so hard his eyes must surely be burning, his brother’s are wide, pupils narrowed to small points.

A smile pulls at McGucket’s lips as if attached to his mouth at the corner and pulled in opposite directions. “Nothin’ that happened here, nothin’  _ you  _ did, woulda lead to any desperate measures?”

“Stan-”

“ _ Is any of this your fault?” _

“Stan, how are you doing this-!”

The lightbulbs of the lab burst in sync and cast the basement into an eerie, blue glow that wafts around Stan like the smoke of cigarettes he no longer craves. “Go on, Ford, tell me more about how my ‘mishap’ endangered your dumb plan.  _ Tell me that what you did didn’t get me killed. _ ”

“Killed? Stan-!”

McGucket’s body falls out from under him, but Stan remains exactly where he was, very nearly burning as he bellows, “ _ YOU DID THIS TO ME. _ ”

He leans in close and there’s no way even Ford could miss the blood and gore that smears his face like gaudy Halloween makeup. His brother’s eyes remain glued to the horror show that is his forehead and all Stan can bring himself to feel is smug.  _ Let him stare. Let him regret. _

“Stanley…” Ford’s jaw can’t seem to stay up for long. It flaps uselessly in the air, little distressed whimpers escaping here and there, “I-I’m...I don’t understand,” he finally admits.

And...that makes sense. That makes sense and Stan wants so bad for his brother to just be shirking the blame, but how could he? He didn’t know Stan was dead, didn’t know the things his assistant was capable of, didn’t know Bill was literally a double-crossing demon, didn’t know Stan would never hurt his brother on purpose.

Stan would like to think Ford should have at least known that last one, but what he just did with the wind and the lights and,  _ Shit,  _ the words he said...Stan’s not sure if that’s true anymore.

He feels as if the ground has fallen out from under him even though gravity has no hold on him anymore.

“Fuck,” he draws a hand across his sensationless face, “ _ Fuck _ . I’m sorry, Ford. I dunno what came over me,” and that’s his worst lie yet because he’s pretty sure he does know, he’s just not sure why it came to a head  _ now.  _ He wonders if it’s something death brings out in people or if it’s just festered for too long for him to hide anymore.

His brother gapes at him for a very long time, “Stanley, you’re  _ dead?” _

“Sure am,” Stan tries to laugh, but it sounds more like he’s choking than anything else. It’s strange to be seen again-- _ why can he see me  _ now _? _ \--and the vagrant finds himself missing when Ford looked through him; it was less invasive than the stare down he’s getting now. “It’s whatever,” he shrugs, “Let’s just get rid of that demon. There’s a way, right?”

Ford...doesn’t seem to process anything he’s saying. He just stands there, gaping.  _ Looks like he’s seen a ghost. _

It’s not funny even in Stan’s own head.

Behind him, he hears a groan and the barely there slide of fabric on stone.

“Oh, no you don’t.” At this point, Stan’s pretty used to the sensation of sliding under flesh and fighting down another’s mind, but he supposes it must not look any better than it feels because when Stan turns to face his brother again in McGucket’s body, he’s pale and trembling.

“Er, sorry about that,” he shuffles McGucket’s feet, “He doesn’t like me much. It’s easier when he’s not trying to blast me outta existence or trying to murder you, trust me.”

Ford shakes his head like he’s trying to physically knock whatever thoughts he’s having straight out of his head. “Trying to- _ What? _ ” he swallows thickly.

Yeah, Stan feels about the same.

“Ford,” he speaks abruptly, “Your demon pal?”

It takes his brother a little longer than it should for him to catch on but, well, maybe he’s in shock? Stan sure was when he first figured it out. “Right,” he says again with a bit more feeling this time, “I, Stanley-”

Stan sighs, “Nothin’ you can do for me now, Sixer. Better off we deal with your problem first, right?”

There’s some strange glassy hardness to his brother’s eyes. Something in the way he stutters soundlessly that leaves Stan certain he’s going to argue once more. Instead he says,“I don’t know how to, though. Bill’s weaknesses weren’t exactly something we discussed.”

Stan has to push and push down  _ hard _ to keep something hot and bitter from spilling past his lips in some...some stupid, self riteous speech like when he got here.  _ I have a mullet, my ass _ .

“Figured as much. What did you talk about then? Maybe he said somethin’ that could help take him down? How’s this deal of yours work?”

His brother’s brain seems to finally be running at a decent speed, “Bill can possess me when I fall asleep by taking over my body through the mindscape and I can contact him in that same space through meditation, “Other than that, though, there’s no limits to what he can do with my body or for how long. I could be eighty and he could still take me over.”

“But only when you sleep?” Stan clarifies.

Ford nods.

“Well, that explains the eyebags,”  _ And the way Bill showed up last time. _

A thought worms its way into Stan’s brain, a stupid, trecherous idea, but their only shot from the looks of it.

“You should get some sleep,” Stan says, “I bet you’ll think of something in the morning after a good night’s rest.”

“But Bill-”

“-Can’t do much if I tie you up and watch you,” Stan draws himself up as confidently as he can in McGucket’s body.

Ford mulls this over for a bit, hand on his chin in deep thought, “Okay,” he says slowly, “But Stanley, you have to promise me you won’t make a deal.”

It’s childish, but Stan crosses his fingers behind his back as if that somehow absolves him of what he’s about to do, “I promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> stay safe tonight guys <3


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Stan bails on a bad plan very, very quickly and Ford does something impulsive to fuel his martyr complex.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! this chapter is dedicated to [giraffewrites](https://archiveofourown.org/users/giraffewrites/pseuds/giraffewrites) because the Second she told me she started this fic I got the motivation to fix this mess of a chapter. Jess ily <3333

Tying your twin’s hands behind his back and then gingerly tucking him into bed with the intention of immediately betraying him as soon as he’s asleep is an experience all its own. Surreal for starters, but even that doesn’t seem to cover the weird roil of emotions that bubble up in McGucket’s chest as they wait for the demon to show himself.

It takes a while. Ford’s fight or flight seems to kick in the second his eyes start to droop and he jolts to wakefulness every time he comes close to sleep. Stan almost wants to doze off himself with how boring it all is, but apparently, ghosts don’t need to sleep, and McGucket’s body is too pumped full of paranoia to come close to really relaxing anyway. It’s just as well, though; Stan’s sure that if his brother thought he was going to sleep through his vigil, he wouldn’t have agreed to this at all.

Finally, Stanford falls asleep, and not even a second later, Bill’s sitting stock upright in his place.

“Your brother really is terrible at everything, isn’t he?” he greets cheerily.

“Good to see you too, Creep,” Stan tries not to squirm in the demon’s presence. He wonders if possession is always this unnerving and that’s why Ford had looked like he was about to lose his lunch when he saw Stan in McGucket’s body _knowing_ that it was Stan.

Bill cracks his brother’s neck with a sharp and sudden twist of his head before throwing his feet over the side of the bed, “So, ya got the goods?” his smile looks almost lecherous.

Stan pulls the book off of Ford’s bedside table and tosses it into the bound demon’s lap, “Sure did. You gonna leave my brother alone?”

“We’ll get to that,” Bill leans forward, folding over the journal in the only protective maneuver he can pull off. He lifts Ford’s tied hands and shoves them under Stan’s nose, “Untie me, then we’ll get to work.”

“Work?” Stan glares, “That wasn’t part of the deal.”

_You never expected him to keep his word,_ he reminds himself, _You just need to talk to him._

“Sure wasn’t! You never shook on it, though, so I’m adding some amendments,” he twists Ford’s wrists once more and Stan, reluctantly, unties him.

The demon pulls Ford to his feet with a skip in his step, “Let’s get going then,” Bill walks out of the room without hesitation, unbothered by turning his back to Stan as if he’s not even a blip on the thing’s threat radar. It’s insulting, but it also works in the ghost’s favour; being underestimated was one of the greatest freedoms he had in his shit life and it would seem that that one bonus carries over into death too.

_Just gotta use that to find out this thing’s weaknesses._

They return to the basement--Stan can’t help but think that the rest of the house was built more as a formality than to actually _use_ any of it--and head straight to the control console. Bill flips the journal to the bookmarked page, a red ribbon with a familiar-looking key that dangles within the pages.

Stan raises his killer’s fingers to his throat, taking notice of the cool chain and its weighted key on McGucket’s chest for what feels like the first time. _An operation key...McGucket had it?_

Stan drops the key as if burned but Bill’s already noticed the motion. The look he gives the thief is smugly amused, “It’s really funny how dumb you are!” Bill cheerily rocks back on his brother’s feet, “I already _knew_ Glasses had that key--he stormed out with it when he quit the project! Sending you to fetch the second using him was really just a buy-one-get-one deal for me!” Ford’s lips pull apart in that unnerving grin of Bill’s, sneering down at Stan. He can’t help but recoil at that expression on his brother’s face. It was too dark to see Ford’s face all those years ago when he closed the curtains on Stan, but this face, it’s the one his twin always wears in his nightmares.

“It’s a two-person activation,” Bill gestures, “I’m sure one demon and one dead screw-up in a mortal body each will work just the same.”

Numbly, Stan reaches for the key.

_What do I do? What do I do?_

He wants to protect his brother-- _needs_ to protect his brother. It’s his job--but what is he supposed to do? Getting rid of Bill wasn’t even something Ford knew how to do and Stan doesn’t bother entertaining the illusion that Bill will actually keep his word and leave Ford’s body once he gets what he wants. Not to mention, Ford was so _scared_ of the portal, so sure it would end the world.

_There has to be a way to get him outta Ford-_

Stan yanks the key off of its chain and the robe McGucket wears swishes at the sudden motion; the right pocket thunks dully against the control console.

_What the…?_

_Oh!_

Stan possessing McGucket is just like Bill possessing his brother, right? And McGucket...he had a way of forcing Stan _out._ That weird not-gun thing that’s stored in the robe pocket did a number on Stan, it kept him suspended in some sort of limbo for who knows how long.

_Would that_ work _on Bill? He’s a demon, not a ghost. And the gun...how does it work? I’ve never used it and I’m running out of time. But what if I hurt Ford by accident? I can’t wait, though. If I try to put it off, Bill could catch-on and who knows what he’d do then!_

Stan’s been stuck between a rock and a hard place before, but this, he thinks, takes the shitty, rock-hard cake.

There’s no choice here. Stan’s track record with science experiments isn’t great; if he tries to fire that thing without knowing what he’s doing, something’s going to go wrong.

He falls back on o’ reliable and punches Bill while his overconfident back is turned. Demon or no, Ford’s exhausted; one hit is all it takes to send his brother to the ground. 

Bill turns on Stan, a long, curling sneer pulling his lips like some movie villain. “You’re gonna regret that, Fez!”

Stan is on top of Bill before he even finishes speaking and pulls out the rope from earlier. McGucket’s limbs shake and fumble and twitch most of the time, but the man does _far worse_ under pressure. Worse still, it seems when Bill starts cackling and squirming like a madman.

“What’s your plan after this?” Bill taunts, kicking his feet in an attempt to buck Stan off. He doesn’t sound distressed or even pissed off when he talks; he sounds _amused._ Bile claws its way up McGucket’s throat, but Stan holds it back, unwilling to have to explain to Ford why he’s covered in vomit when he wakes up.

The demon keeps talking, “I’m not _going away_ just because you decided to back out of a good thing--” the rope finally loops properly around his brother’s wrists _“--You’re making a mistake Stanley Pines!_ Screw me over now and I will make Sixer _suffer_ before he dies!”

Stan shudders violently. “Shuddup,” he means to growl, but it comes out more like a whisper.

“I think I’ll start with his eyes!” Bill says cheerily, “Never did understand why you fleshbags needed two. Depth perception?” he blows a raspberry, “Reality’s an illusion, why would you need to see _more_ of it?”

Finally, _finally_ Stan manages to secure Ford’s hands. “You’re dead, Bill,” his voice hasn’t recovered, it’s thick in his throat when he talks, but with as much conviction he can muster, he says, “You just don’t know it yet.”

* * *

“Ugh, my head…”

Stan winces, “Sorry about that,” he rubs the back of his neck, “Bill wasn’t too happy about being tied up and babysat.” He decides not to mention their little midnight fieldtrip.

Ford sits up gingerly from his bed, a small smile making itself a home on his face, “No,” he laughs, “I suppose he wasn’t.” His brother looks so...relieved. He supposes that this must be Ford’s first victory over the thing since it all began.

He helps Ford out of his binds, a small smile of his own creeping across his face, “I think I figured out a way to defeat that thing.”

His twin’s eyes shoot up from where they’d previously been locked on his red wrists, “How?” he asks and Stan feels tears well up in foreign tear ducts because Ford hasn’t looked at him like that, like he actually _expects_ something from him, since they were kids.

He pulls the gun out from McGucket’s pocket and passes it to Ford gingerly. “I dunno what this thing is exactly, McGucket called it a memory gun. When I wasn’t in his body, he shot himself with this thing and, when he did that, I disappeared.”

Something like curious apprehension dances in Ford’s eyes as he stares the thing down, “It...it might work,” he says honestly, “But what it would _do-”_

“What do you mean, ‘what it would do’?” something tight coils within McGucket’s chest but Stan has no doubt that the feeling belongs to him.

“It erases memories, Stanley. When you disappeared, it-it must have been because the only person connected to your death forgot about you. Ghosts are just residual human memory, you see, given substance by the energy they had during life. No memory means much of the energy disperses because your form is too unstable and directionless to maintain by yourself. To take out something like _Bill_ though…”

“What, isn’t it the same thing? He’s a dream demon, right? That’s something in the head a memory gun should be able to target.”

Ford nods and finally grasps the gun in his own hands, “It can, but Bill is _pure energy._ He can’t be destroyed, only dispersed, but to have enough power to disperse that much energy...Stanly, I think we’d have to erase it all.”

Stan goes cold. “Erase it all?”

“My whole mind.”

“Your whole mind…” he echoes, “B-but that would mean-” he can’t finish that sentence.

_It was either that or erase his memories an’ he told me himself he’d rather be dead than without his mind!_

Ford doesn’t seem too eager to complete the thought either and they lapse into silence, tension buzzing in the air between them as the implications ring loud. _Christ._

“I came back, though,” Stan points out hesitantly, “Couldn’t you?”

His brother considers this for half a second before asking, “Couldn’t Bill?”

Stan hates it when Ford’s right.

The silence resumes.

“It would buy us some time, at the very least.”

The phrase jars Stan out of whatever stupor he was in, but it doesn’t make sense, abrupt as it is. _What’s he goin’ on about?_

“Bill can’t hurt anyone so long as I don’t remember,” Ford points out. His face twists into something that’s almost another triumphant smile, but this one has a bitter downturn at the corners and a fierce determination in the eyes that Stan doesn’t like. Still, Ford is confident when he says, “Even if the effects aren't permanent, it’ll buy you time to dismantle the portal. As long as you have that memory gun, you can erase my mind again if I start to remember.”

“Wha-Ford, no. What?” he means to sound more...more _something,_ but all Stan sounds is shocked; too disconnected from what Ford’s saying to actually feel anything other than confused.

"And if you're right," Ford continues, rambling the way he did when they were kids and he learned about a new chemical property, "If you're right and I can _come back,_ well, between you and Fiddleford, I'm sure you could remind me who I am."

Ford flips around the memory gun in his hands, his decision seemingly made although Stan has no idea why _this_ is the solution his brother picks. He types on the keyboard in what must be slow motion because Stan can hear the tap of the keyboard a second before his twin’s fingers actually make contact. Then the gun is being placed in one hand and lifted up-

“There should be blueprints in the lab. Talk to Fiddleford, if you can. He can help you dismantle the portal safely.”

“Wait, Ford-!”

Suddenly everything is sharpening into focus. Stan can see every twitch of muscle, the way Ford’s lips turn to something more soft than bitter in those last seconds. His twin opens his mouth as if to speak, but inevitably just allows the silence to take over. When they lock eyes, Stan can see the fear barely concealed there under his determination.

Ford’s finger pulls back and a flash of blue encompasses the room.

There is no relief on Ford’s face when his eyes dim.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading, and sorry for the long wait! still not satisfied with this chapter tbh but I think that's just me being angry at Ford for being an absolute tool.
> 
> you can follow me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/inabsurd) or [Tumblr](https://inabsurd.tumblr.com/) for writing updates and stuff in case I uh do this again lol. feel free to hmu at any point over there, I don't mind!

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! like I said, this is my first multi-chap so reviews are Super Appreciated


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